Even thirty years of marriage is no reason to tolerate betrayal
Elizabeth was turning a small velvet box over in her hands the blue had faded, and the golden lettering was barely visible. Inside glittered three miniature stones. They were pretty, admittedly.
Five hundred quid, said Oliver, scrolling through the news on his tablet. Got it at Goldsmiths, used the loyalty card.
Thank you, dear.
Her chest tightened. Not from the price who could complain at their age? It was the way he said it. Offhand, as if he were telling her about buying milk.
Thirty years together. Pearl anniversary quite rare nowadays. Elizabeth had risen early, retrieved the fancy lace-edged tablecloth from the cupboard a wedding gift from her mother-in-law. She started making angel cake, a recipe Oliver once called a slice of heaven.
Now he just sat, glued to the screen, barely answering her questions.
Ollie, do you remember you promised wed go to Italy for our thirtieth?
Mmhmm, without looking up.
Well, maybe we could at least go down to Cornwall? Its been ages since we had a trip together.
Liz, Ive got a project on its urgent. No time at the moment.
There was always a project. Especially the past year and a half, since Oliver suddenly caught youth. He joined the gym, bought expensive trainers, overhauled his wardrobe. Even his haircut was trendy swept fringe, shaved sides.
Midlife crisis, her friend Susan would say. Happens to all men. Itll pass.
It didnt pass. It only grew stronger.
Elizabeth tried the ring it fit perfectly. At least, after all these years, he still knew her size. The stones shimmered with a chilly glint.
Its lovely, she repeated, examining the gift.
Yes. Modern setting. Youthful look.
That evening, they sat almost silent at the celebration table. The cake turned out as always light, airy. Oliver ate a slice and muttered a compliment automatically. Elizabeth watched him, wondering when her husband had become a stranger.
And whos that girl? she suddenly asked.
What girl? Oliver glanced up from his plate.
The one who helped you pick out this youthful ring.
Whats she got to do with it?
Oliver, her voice was calm, Im not stupid. A woman chose this ring. No man calls a jewellery design youthful.
A long, awkward pause.
Liz, what are you on about?
Her names Alice, isnt it?
Oliver paled. He didnt even ask how she knew. Shed hit the mark.
I saw your messages by accident. Last month, when you asked me to find the insurance number on your phone. Sunshine, see you soon remember sending that?
He didnt reply.
Shes twenty-eight, works at your office. Yesterday she posted a picture from a restaurant the exact window table you two sat at. I recognised the tablecloth.
How do you know about the restaurant?
Susan saw you. By chance. Do you think people in this town dont notice?
Oliver exhaled heavily.
Alright. Yes, theres Alice. But its not what you think.
What is it then?
She understands me. Its easy, interesting. We talk about books, films.
So, theres nothing to talk about with me?
Liz, just look at yourself! All you ever chat about is the kids, our health, or whats shot up in price. With Alice, I feel alive.
Alive, Elizabeth echoed. I see.
I never wanted to hurt you.
Oliver bowed his head.
Does she know youre married?
She does.
And shes fine with being with a married man?
Liz, shes a modern woman. Has no illusions.
Modern, Elizabeth snorted. And my thirty years with you thats an illusion?
She stood, began tidying the plates. Her hands shook, though she tried to hide it.
Liz, can we talk properly?
Theres nothing left to say. You chose.
I didnt choose anyone!
Yes, you did. Every day. When you come home late. When you lie about work trips. When you buy her gifts using my money.
Our money!
Mine too. I work, remember?
Elizabeth washed the plates, placed them carefully on the rack. Folded away the special tablecloth. Everything done as usual. Only her hands kept trembling.
Liz, what do you want? Oliver asked, standing in the kitchen doorway.
I want to be alone. Tonight. To think.
And tomorrow?
I dont know.
For two days, she barely spoke. Oliver tried to start a conversation, only to get polite, monosyllabic replies. On the third day, he couldnt take it:
How long is this going on?
Whats wrong with it? Elizabeth replied, ironing his shirt. I still do everything cook, clean, laundry. Same as always.
But you dont talk!
Why bother? You have Alice for that.
Liz!
What, Liz? You said yourself I bore you. Whats the point?
That evening, he left. Said he was going to friends. Elizabeth knew he left for her.
She went to the computer, browsed Alices social media page. Pretty girl. Young. Pictured on fancy holidays, trendy outfits, champagne glass in hand.
One post from yesterday said: Life is beautiful when youre valued. The hashtags love, happiness, matureman.
Mature man. Elizabeth smirked. As if it were a product label.
In the comments, Alices friends wrote: Ali, whens the wedding?, Lucky girl, such a catch!, What about his wife?
Alice replied to that: Their marriage is just formal now. They live like flatmates.
Thirty years like flatmates.
Next morning, Elizabeth made an appointment with a solicitor. Young man with glasses listened attentively to her story.
Right. Joint assets split half-half. House, holiday cottage, car. If you prove adultery you might get a bigger share.
I dont need more, Elizabeth said. Just whats fair.
At home she made her list:
House sell, divide equally.
Holiday cottage for him. Shed never go back.
Car for her. He could get himself another.
Bank accounts split.
Oliver came late, saw the list on the kitchen table.
Whats this?
Divorce.
Youve gone mad?
No. Ive finally come round.
Liz, I explained! Its just a fancy itll blow over!
And what if it doesnt? Am I meant to wait thirty years more until youve had enough?
Oliver sank into the sofa, hid his face in his hands.
I didnt want to hurt you.
But you did.
What should I do now?
Choose, Elizabeth said. Its either the family, or Alice. No third option.
Three months, they lived truly as flatmates. Oliver moved into the spare room. They spoke only when necessary. Elizabeth signed up for English lessons, started swimming, finally read all those books shed never had time for.
Alice called now and then, crying into the phone. Oliver would slip outside, murmuring soothing explanations.
One evening, he came home earlier than usual. Sat opposite Elizabeth.
Ive ended it with her.
Why do I need to know?
Liz, I realise now. I was a fool. I made a dreadful mistake.
I agree.
Can we try again? Ive changed.
Elizabeth put down her book.
Oliver, you didnt end it because you value me now. You ended it because youre bored. The next Alice will pop up in a year or two.
She wont.
She absolutely will. Because you havent lost me youre losing your youth. And theres nothing I can do about that.
Liz.
Divorce papers are ready. Sign them.
He signed. No shouting, no wrangling over things. Elizabeth kept only what shed listed at the start.
Six months later, she met Raymond her age, widower, a teacher of English. They met at her evening classes. He invited her to the theatre.
You know, Elizabeth, he said over coffee after the play, I really enjoy talking with you. Youre fascinating.
Really? My ex used to say I was dull.
Then he just never learnt to listen.
Raymond listened. He appreciated her thoughts, laughed at her jokes, shared about himself without trying to seem younger.
So what attracts you in men? Elizabeth asked one day.
Intelligence. Kindness. Honesty. What about you, in men?
Honesty. And a man not afraid of his age.
They both laughed.
Oliver called sometimes. Sent holiday greetings, asked after her health. Like old friends.
Are you happy? he asked one day.
Yes, Elizabeth answered, without hesitation. Are you?
Im not sure. Probably not.
Well, we each make our own choices.
She still keeps the five-hundred-pound ring. She doesnt wear it it just sits in the jewellery box. A reminder of how easily thirty years can be devalued.
And on her birthday, Raymond gave her an antique brooch discovered at a flea market, inexpensive, but chosen lovingly.
Beauty isnt about price, he said. Its all in the feeling behind the gift.
And Elizabeth knew after fifty, life doesnt end. It simply starts over again.
And what about you? Do you think its possible to begin anew in later life? Share your thoughts below.
